


Ashes to Ashes

by Razzika



Series: Like Tarzan, but with velociraptors [4]
Category: Jurassic Park - All Media Types, Jurassic World (2015)
Genre: M/M, Violence, tarzan au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-18
Updated: 2018-03-18
Packaged: 2019-04-04 00:01:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14007720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Razzika/pseuds/Razzika
Summary: After two weeks on Isla Sorna, Eric breaks. He buries his face into his knees and cries, cries, cries.He sobs into filthy denim, grinding his forehead into the rough material until it hurts. He pleads raggedly for the spectre of Isla Sorna that he knows is there, is hiding just out of sight, to reveal themselves. To come out. To just sit beside him and prove that they’re real.To prove that he isn't going crazy.They don’t.-An AU of an AU. Takes place halfway through Where the Wild Things Roam and diverts from there.





	Ashes to Ashes

**Author's Note:**

> I’m stuck with the main story, so here is an AU of my AU *jazz hands*
> 
> Also, I’m totally fudging Jurassic World 2’s plot is.
> 
> Warnings: Violence, swearing, mentions of animal death.
> 
> Edited as of 18/06/2018.
> 
> This AU starts half-way through the Where the Wild Things Roam, where Eric breaks down and asks Jane to come out of hiding. Feel free to chuck any questions my way in a PM or the comments.

 

After two weeks on Isla Sorna, Eric breaks. He buries his face into his knees and cries, cries, cries.

He sobs into filthy denim, grinding his forehead into the rough material until it hurts. He pleads raggedly for the spectre of Isla Sorna that he knows is there, is hiding just out of sight, to reveal themselves. To come out. To just sit beside him and prove that they’re real.

To prove that he isn't going crazy.

They don’t.

.

.

.

Eric cries until he cannot any longer, until his eyes hurt and his face feels swollen and bloated. After, Eric picks himself up. He goes inside the rusted watertruck that stinks of mildew and cold metal. He tries to sleep.

A petulant part of him wants to ignore the pile of musty blankets and vending machine food waiting outside the next morning. Logic wins out, as he has never known hunger like he had before he was led to this place, and he angrily tears into one of the old protein bars. It's like chewing cardboard slathered with peanut butter.

Despite that Eric does not offer wooden carvings any longer, the spectre never stops leaving things. Gear, clothing, food. A few knives. They raid the facilities that Eric dares not venture towards - yet - and keep him alive and fed.

If it weren’t for the supplies that make his survival possible, Eric would think he had gone insane on this island of impossible creatures. He still worries about it, late in the night when the compy flock are scratching at the door, that his mind is a jumbled mess.

So, he decides, he needs a way to chronicle his time here - a way to keep track of everything.

On the first day at the watertuck, Eric found a shrivelled, dusty notebook in the glovebox. It was crammed in between a map and vehicle logs that were full of secret notes between two of the maintenance crew. He carefully write down his supplies in the notebook, and journals twice a day to get his thoughts out.

Sometimes, it feels like he is actually spilling his thoughts to a person and not a book.

.

.

.

The first dinosaur Eric sees is the T-Rex as it's trying to eat him.

Hands slick with sweat, Eric hastily shoves the lid on and buries it in his bag. Air scrapes down his throat as he scrambles through the thick trunks of trees. He trips, barely catches himself, and ploughs deeper in the thickets.

The jungle of Isla Sorna is wild, untamed, and the trees have grown so large that even the might of this creature cannot break them. He squeezes through two enormous trees that guard a tiny indent in the cliff face. The is cold against his back, solid and immovable, and Eric gags as the hot, meaty breath of the frustrated T-Rex assaults him.

He wants to scream. He doesn't know how he stays so silent and still as two enormous, primal eyes stare him down. 

The T-Rex growls, a low thunder that builds louder and louder in its cavernous chest. It tries to push through the trees, snarling as its bulk keeps it at bay. Bark rains down as it still tries to squeeze through a space half its size.

The muzzle is only metres away. A thin noise drags up his throat, fear sitting rancid in his gut.

What if it breaks through, he panics, what if it breaks through-

A screech echoes through the jungle. 

The T-Rex pauses, pulls back and tilts its enormous head. Eric shakes and shivers as the noise comes again, a loud cry that scrapes along his bones and hurts his ears. It is a sound that cuts like a blade through the jungle, coming from all angles, and it makes the T-Rex take a step back.

The ground shudders as the giant shifts its weight. It scents the air and snorts.

Bile coats the back of Eric throat. He isn’t sure which terrifies him more, the low, persistent snarl of the behemoth before him, or the long, high sounds that make such a creature hesitate.

One final cry, loud and alive with anger, and the T-Rex surrenders. With a heavy roar, it turns and lumbers away.

Eric breathes. His knuckles hurt with how tightly his hands are clenched. He wants nothing more than to go home, to run away from this awful ruin of an island and bury himself in his mothers arms.

But, he cannot do that.

He waits until the T-Rex's footsteps fade and the jungle comes alive with noise again. 

"All this," he croaks, needing to speak because he hasn't in days, "for a jar of piss."

Eric runs home.

.

.

.

There is a pile of smoke grenades waiting for Eric the next day.

As he sets them aside with his other supplies, Eric wonders what kind of creature would be dangerous enough to deter a T-Rex from an easy meal.

He isn't comforted by the thought.

.

.

.

Bored and desperate for something other than old vending machine food, and not yet desperate enough to dig into canned foods well past their expiration date, Eric sets a trap.

He has seen little dinosaurs running around, fat fish in the rivers, and wild chickens scratching through the undergrowth. There is plenty of animals around that he can hunt, and his boyscout training for this particular skill comes back to him in a rush.

The snare catches a compy within two hours of being set.

Glee rushes along his veins, and then horror.

Eric stares at the little, green dinosaur, gnawing desperately at the thin rope wrapped around its ankle. It's frantic, thrashing despite how the snare cuts deeper into its skin.

He is so hungry. 

The handle of his knife is slippery with sweat. He fumbles with it for a moment before tightening his grip. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, and wraps one hand around the compy's muzzle. A stressed, flighty body squirms against his side, struggling and scratching at his forearm-

A moment, a decision. He cuts the compy free.

It squawks and flees, gait unhindered.

Eric promptly throws up.

So much for hunting.

.

.

.

The map Eric found with the notebook is invaluable for what he plans next. Hunting may be a loss, but he has a ghille blanket and a vial of T-Rex piss now - he should be able to get into one of the old facilities safely.

On the map, every paddock and gateway is listed - and so are what was once housed in the exhibits. He dreads coming across about 90% of the creatures.

Thus far, Eric has avoided going near the buildings. The one time he tried was when he’d come across the damned T-Rex while it was taking a piss. But, after the disaster of Eric’s foray into hunting, he seeks out the closest building again.

He needs supplies; more than what the spectre provides. 

And, maybe, there is a working phone. A radio. A computer, for heavens sake.

He wraps himself in the greenery of his ghille poncho, tucks a small vial of T-Rex pee into a pocket, and heads out.

.

.

.

Eric finds Dr Alan Grant instead.

.

.

.

When Eric and Dr Grant are tucked away in the watertruck, scoffing down one of the few still eatable tins of food, Eric thinks back on the noises the raptors had made.

The range was wide as they spoke to one and other. But their cries...they keened, like metal grinding against metal.

Eric chews slowly, thoughts swirling around in his skull. 

Impossible, he thinks.

But, Isla Sorna is an island of impossibilities in itself.

Perhaps, just maybe, his spectre was something even  _more_ incredible.

Eric takes a sip of water, absently passing the bottle to Dr Grant as another coughing fit hits him. Eric's scarf had protected him from inhaling the smoke, at least.

He surreptitiously looks at Dr Grant, a man who had theorised raptors to be smarter than dolphins, smarter than primates. How smart were they, really?

The spectre that left Eric dry clothes and candy bars and took such care to never be seen, that had ignored his pleas to just sit by his side, that could mimic a raptors cry to a startling degree. There was no other logical explanation as to what had happened that day.

Unless it wasn't a mimic at all.

“Huh,” he says, candy wrapper crinkling in his hand. Dr Grant looks up, quirking a brow. “Oh, uh. Nothing, Dr Grant. Just thinking.”

“Call me Alan,” he goes after a pause, eyes pale and tired but bright with knowledge. Above all others, this man knows what it is like to love dinosaurs and fear them all at once. “So, is this how you survive for two months alone? Canned ravioli and smoke grenades?”

Eric bites back a _I wasn’t alone_ behind his teeth.

“Pretty much,” he manages, grinning weakly as his stomach churns.

Eric was never alone on this island.

Not really.

.

.

.

Everyone is breathing hard, tense as the heavy footsteps of the spinosaurus fade into the distance, but Eric is wrapped in his parents arms. He almost cries from sheer relief, from joy.

They came for him. Both of them.

He clutches at his mother’s shirt and buries his face into her shoulder. She smells like home, and the heartache and loneliness of the last few months hits him acutely.

He'd watched Ben die. Eric had watched his uncle suffocate hanging from a tree, helpless, and he had been alone for so long.

“My baby boy.” She smooths cool hands over his hair, his face, until they’re squeezing his shoulders. “Oh, I’m so glad you’re alive.”

She hugs him again. Eric relishes in the contact.

“I want to go home,” he whispers.

"I know. Soon, baby. We'll go home soon." Reluctantly, she pulls away with a kiss to his cheek. "Sit down and catch your breath."

His mother joins the others. Eric gets a grip on himself, walking away to poke around the building while his heart settles.

Oh, he realises.

This is someones home.

As he spies a shelf full of familiar wooden carvings, Eric also realises just whose home it is.

The spectre. His spectre.

Eric swallows thickly, shuffling closer to the shelf full of his gifts. All but the one he had hung on a thong of length of twine sit in a neat row. 

The spectre must be wearing it.

The frosty anger that has lingered in his chest for weeks dissipates. Eric sighs quietly.

"Wish you had come out," he whispers, too softly to be overheard with all the arguing going on between Alan, Billy, and his parents. "Would liked to have meet you properly."

Eric peers down at the level below. Hidden away in a corner is a nest of blankets and pillows. The area is free of the dust and growth that coats every other man-made structure on the island.

Eric bites his lip. He is so very curious, but this spectre, his protector, has hidden for a reason.

Slowly, so as to not draw attention, Eric backs away from the stairs leading to the level below and joins the others.

.

.

.

Sand covers his hands as Eric curls his fingers into the ground.

A white raptor buries its nose into his mothers hair. Long fingers flex, tail weaving through the air, and yellow eyes are far more intelligent than Eric thought they would be.

Helpless, he shivers.

Fear is cold in his gut, spreading up into his chest and along the back of his skull. For all the long weeks he had spent on this island, he has seen very few dinosaurs.

His mother pushes the eggs forward.

The pack of raptors circle as the white one, and one he guesses is its mate, delicately pick their stolen young up between rows of sharp teeth. They move with a hypnotic grace, deadly lines and coiled strength.

Two other raptors linger, one bearing a multitude of scars. They sniff the air and watch him closely. Not the others, just Eric.

“Eric,” his father hisses, clutching at his wrist as if to pull him back, and the raptors blink.

Eric stares. They cock their heads, padding closer, and make small, curious chirps. Alan is stock still but Eric can practically feel the furious thoughts racing through his head.

Suddenly, Eric is not afraid.

From behind, a soft call comes. He recognises the odd quality to it, so similar to the raptors before him only not quite as sharp and loud, as if coming from a being without such a cavernous chest.

So not a mimic, but not a raptor either; something else.

The scarred one watches him for a moment, churring, and trots back into the jungle. The other one follows.

"Holy crap," his father gasps, and again when the thud of a helicopter hums in the air. 

They rise and run for the beach. A man with a megaphone awaits them, and soon after Eric sees an entire fleet of Navy ships run ashore.

He turns back, just once, and stares into the darkest parts of the jungle.

"See ya," he says.

Eric goes home.

.

.

.

Home is strange for a while.

His bedroom lacks the damp of Isla Sorna. The fresh, clean scent of jungle air is mourned while his lungs readjust to the sourness of living in a city. It makes him sick for a little while, thick and clogging his lungs like cigarette smoke.

Scars grow from pink and new to shiny and old. Eric quickly tires of explaining their origins. InGen could not hide after San Diego, and many of his old schoolmates knew of the trip his uncle had planned.  They stare and whisper until the next scandal grabs their attention.

Eric’s family stays close, though his parents stay divorced, and his world returns to a semblance of normalcy.

Still, in his bleaker moments Eric finds that he almost misses Isla Sorna.

Not that he tells anyone.

Just like how he doesn't speak a word of his spectre.

.

.

.

School is jarring at first, being submerged in a crowd of hundreds after weeks of being alone. Ignoring the stares and whispers, Eric works hard to catch up on the all the weeks of study he lost, because in two years he’ll be applying for collages.

Jurassic World opens in one.

It is all over the news. As is a startling amount of coverage for the poachers that have been plundering the islands. While he doesn’t much care for the new park, the poaching drives a hot spike through his ribs.

Eric grits his teeth as he reads through the latest article about black market dinosaur parts.

Isla Sorna could have been his grave. It wasn’t.

He is alive because something, some _one,_ on that island protected him.

Those that call the Isla Sorna home deserve better than this violence, than for their bones and skin and blood to be bought and sold as trophies for a rich man’s wall.

It’s not right, he thinks, opening another article.

“Huh.” Eric hums, anger dimming, as he reads about the rumours flooding the docks of Costa Rica. After a beat, Eric laughs.

The Ghost of Five Deaths seems an apt name for the spectre that protected him so well.

.

.

.

Sometimes, when the nightmares are at their worst, Eric is still angry that his spectre didn’t answer his call.

Reason asserts itself shortly after the shivers of fear fade. Guilt swarms in instead.

Though the spectre had not answered his pleas, they had never stopped protecting him, not withholding the precious supplies he would have struggled to find.

And he knows, without a doubt, that the spectre had bullied the T-Rex away with nothing but a scream.

Tonight, he remembers that day all to vividly.

Eric swears that he can smell the rancid breath of the giant. He buries his nose into his pillow as the sweat cools on his skin, pulling in the smells of home until he calms.

Another night, another nightmare come and gone. He rolls onto his back with a sigh.

Eric shivers and stares up at his bedroom ceiling. He has a life because the spectre had chosen to let him live.

Perhaps, Eric thinks, casting a glance at the pile of college flyers sitting on his desk, it was time to actually do something with it.

.

.

.

John Hammond has spoken with Eric a few times.

The first time, Eric had been free of Isla Sorna for a month and struggling to adjust, and Hammond had introduced Eric to his grandchildren – kids like him, that knew the wonder and terror of InGen’s creations.

Eric gained two friends that day. Lex is the one to tell Hammond of Eric’s desire to be a wildlife photographer, or so Tim tattles.

Once the time has come and Eric has applied for a dozen programs, Hammond puts Eric in touch with a mentor.

Nick Van Owen is weird. He looks at Eric with a smirk, snaps his gum, and says, “So you’re the dinosaur kid, huh? Thought you’d be taller.”

Eric glares. Van Owen laughs, tucking a pen behind his ear, and roughly pats Eric on the shoulder.

“Just joshing ya, kid.” He jerks a thumb behind his shoulder. “Let’s see how well you handle my equipment on the fly. Our flight leaves in two hours. Ya ever been to Botswana?”

.

.

.

Eric travels the world with his mentor. He does most of his course online while Van Owen drags him over the globe, and falls in love with photography.

At first, Eric is little more than an assistant, carting bags around and learning how to manage the equipment, how to protect a $5000 set-up from the deluge of a tropical rainforest, how to keep a camera steady on his shoulder while their jeep keeps pace with a herd of gazelle.

Time goes by. Weeks, months, years. Though it all Eric learns, he grows, he develops a portfolio that shows the many wonders of nature. He comes face to face with the most dangerous creatures on earth and feels nothing even close to fear. Respect, yes, but not fear.

Few things can compare to a T-Rex, after all.

.

.

.

Eric graduates with honours, and the rumours of the Ghost of Five Deaths persists to the day he dons the robe and tassel.

.

.

.

Isla Sorna burns.

The world watches as towers of black smoke billow into the sky, fire consuming all in its path in ferocious hunger. Every news station is tuned in on the disaster.

Eric clutches his phone so hard the case creaks. Bile coats his tongue. The news camera zooms in on a herd of parasaurs escaping the flames, plunging into the ocean in a terrified frenzy, and Eric bites on a knuckle to withhold the thin noise building in his throat.

Can fire harm a ghost? A spectre?

“You okay, kiddo?”

Eric grunts a faint noise.

Nick stops, half of the gear from their latest shoot still slung over one shoulder, and follows Eric’s wide-eyed stare to the television.

“Oh,” Nick whispers, “shit.”

A grim-faced newscaster starts talking as a new clip shows. A high keen swallows her words. Eric may actually pass out.

 _Are poachers the source of the fire?_ the text at the bottom of the screen is saying, as the camera shifts from the terrified animals to a beached ship. It is enormous, as are many of the cages strapped to the deck. There can be no mistaking what the crew came to Isla Sorna to do.

This island where Eric had lost so much, where he had left behind a protector that kept each and every wooden carving he had offered, has been plundered and burned.

“Is there anything we can do?”

Nick blinks, a rare anger turning his skin pale, and has his phone out before Eric can say anything else.

.

.

.

A blessed rain quells the fire storm, and the roaring flame is reduced to a hellish glow as the coals stubbornly stay alight. Coast guards board the poacher’s boat before long, and the cameraman tracts their path over the ship closely. Eric watches it all on his phone.

But, Eric knows what the coast guards find.

The poachers are all dead.

It is only because Eric is outside Hammond’s office, incidentally in eavesdropping distance, that he knows this. He isn't sure how the man reporting to Hammond has this information, and Eric does not care to ask. He listens, stomach turning over with nausea.

“It appears that a pack of velociraptors escaped and massacred the lot of them,” the heavy baritone of Hammond's man is saying, and Eric’s lungs seize. “Looks like one of the fools let a grenade loose near the gas tank, caused a large explosion - possibly what started the firestorm.”

“Good lord.” Eric hears Hammond sigh, sounding every one of his many years. “And the creatures?”

“All gone; someone let them out after running the ship ashore.”

Eric chokes on his own spit.

.

.

.

By the time Hammond is able to see Eric he is so sick with worry that his hands shake persistently.

“Ah, Eric, my boy. Come, come sit.” Hammond barely seems to have the strength to stand, and Eric ducks to his side. Frail hands grip Eric’s arm. The touch grounds Eric enough that he calms. “I know you must be horrified by this dreadful business. I’ve read your articles on poaching. Very good work, my boy.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

Hammond must hear how desperate Eric is to act, as his white brows rise with surprise. A smile crinkles his weathered face. “There was a venture I would propose.”

.

.

.

Once, when Nick was drunk, he had spilled about his trip to Isla Sorna, what Hammond had sent him to do. It was a dream opportunity, one that Nick and his bleeding, wrathful heart hadn’t been able to turn aside.

Hammond’s idea is for Eric is something similar in purpose - but not on Isla Sorna.

Working with Jurassic World’s marketing and press departments, Eric is to create media coverage that spins the public's favour towards protecting the dinosaurs, towards seeing them as just as worthy of protection and not just as InGen's property.

It is not what Eric had hoped for, but it is all that he can do. None are allowed to set foot upon Isla Sorna, or even fly overheard.  The island where wild things roam is no man’s land, and none may touch it as it heals.

.

.

.

Months pass.

And then years have come and gone.

Eric does not leave Jurassic World. He does all he can to protect both islands, and despite no longer travelling the world Eric has come to love his job.

Isla Nublar became his home a long time ago. The people are his people, and the animals are a treat he savours from behind protective glass.

The work, too, he loves.

“New project for you, Kirby,” says Dearing, sliding a folder on his desk where he has to acknowledge it. She knows his tendency to get lost in his work well. “And good luck with him.”

Eric peels his eyes up from his computer, half-way through editing a recent shoot of hatchling stegosaurs. “Huh?”

Red lips purse. “You’ll find out for yourself.”

She leaves, white skirt rustling with her brisk stride. Curious, Eric opens he folder and-

He swallows. A tremor snakes under his skin before he tamps it down. He is not afraid, but something else. Something that hums in his veins like lightening.

Eric had always wondered how long it would be before Jurassic World bred velociraptors.

.

.

.

The raptor handler is huge.

Eric feels flustered at first sight. Desperately, he keeps his eyes firmly on his camera instead of letting them roam over broad shoulders, muscled thighs, and work-worn hands.

“Names Owen,” says he, and Eric scrapes his brain together long enough to offer his own introduction. Owen’s grip is firm. Eric actually goes a little weak at the knees. “First warning, my girls listen to me and me only.”

Eric blinks, pulls himself together.

“I know what I’m doing,” Eric says, wry, and fiddles with the settings on his camera. He still remembers yellow eyes, a scarred hide, and the curious noises the raptors had made all those years ago. “Just do what you do. I’ll stay out of your way, Grady.”

Owen’s brows twist up, mouth pressing flat as if he believes Eric is arrogant enough to ignore the danger his girls present. But, the high scream of a raptor disrupts the relative quiet, and Eric barely blinks.

Surprise marks Owen before he assumes a more neutral expression. Eric has seen such reactions before, from carnivore handlers that were expecting him to be too naive or too arrogant to heed their warnings.

Eric knows what he is doing. He is not afraid. Wary, yes, but not afraid.

It's not the first time he has encountered raptors, after all.

 .

.

.

Owen’s raptors are young, barely reaching his knees, and already lethal. Smart and sharp and bristling with energy, they charge around their pen with squeaks that have yet to become a more terrifying scream.

They listen to Owen, bolting to attention as he thumbs the clicker. Camera at the ready, Eric waits on the catwalk while Owen walks into the pen. 

The little brood see Eric, and he almost coos as they cluster behind Owen’s legs.

Owen is alpha. But, for now, Owen is also mother and protector.

Soft and tender things swirling in his chest, Eric hides behind his camera and starts snapping pictures. One raptor with a streak of bright blue along her side eyes him, bolder than the others, and watches Owen carefully for how to treat Eric.

Her name is Blue, he learns.

As the day wears on, Owen’s smirks evolve into smiles, the sarcasm colouring his words gentling into a more friendly banter.

Whatever Owen had expected of Eric, clearly he had surprised the handler.

“I’m impressed,” Owen says at the end of the day. He tilts his jaw down, but green eyes flick up and meet Eric’s with warmth to them. “Most people can barely stand being out here for more than ten minutes.”

“That must make finding staff a nightmare.”

Owen laughs, low and rough, and tilts the set of his hips. “You have dinner plans?”

Surprised, and utterly delighted, Eric says he doesn’t.

.

.

.

Owen is bold and quiet and brims with snark. He demolishes a burger before Eric is halfway through his burrito and matches Eric beer for beer.

By the end of the night, Eric is humming with a pleasant buzz, and takes the liquid courage with him outside.

Eric traps Owen against his sleek motorcycle with naught but his lips. The kiss is good, long and deep, setting Eric’s blood alight. It’s not until someone loudly clears their throat that they pull apart, breathless with laughter and something else, something brighter.

.

.

.

Eric’s had relationships before.

But nothing compares to what slowly burns alive between Owen and he. It wonderful.

He isn’t really sure why Owen makes him so happy, why they fit together so seamlessly, so easily. They do, though, and it is a little frightening. A little daunting.

Weeks together grow into months, until they are celebrating a year together with cheap beers and homemade pizza.

Owen cannot leave the island, be so long away from his girls, so when the time comes to meet the parents Eric’s mother comes to them.

Amanda Kirby is tiny compared to Owen’s bulk. She squints up at him, watches the way Eric blushes when Owen threads their fingers together, and she smiles.

Eric’s father still won’t talk to him. Braving an island full of dinosaurs and breaking half-a-dozen laws was easier than accepting that your son liked men as much as he liked women.

“Hey, mum.” Eric goes to her, hugs her tight. A part of him relaxes when she embraces Owen too.

.

.

.

Owen’s girls are full grown by the time he and Eric have their first fight.

Eric can see the way Hoskins watches Blue and the others, how they always, _always_ read Owen for cues about how to react to newcomers. Hoskins sees their loyalty to the alpha as a chain, a means of control.

Hoskins sees the raptors as weapons. As war dogs.

Eric says as much. Shouts it, because he loves the girls, and he is terrified for them.

“I know,” Owen shouts, words cracking with frustration, and runs a hand raggedly through his hair. “I know what he wants them for. There isn’t anything more that I can do.”

This is something Eric also knows. They've been talking in circles all afternoon, voices hoarse and bodies sagging under the weight of their worry. 

The fight drains out of him. He reaches, twists his hands into Owen’s shirt and pulls them together. Owen is still, for a moment, before softening. Heavy arms loop around Eric in an embrace.

“I’m doing what I can,” Owen says, whisper soft, after a while. “Reality is, the girls aren’t really mine. They’re property.”

Eric swallows his distaste. If Hammond were still alive, he might be able to do something.

.

.

.

Hoskins shoves his unwanted presence around the raptors, and Owen comes home from those days burning with frustration and helplessness.

There is nothing Eric can go asides comfort him at the end of the day. So, Eric does his job. Maybe, with the right nudges, Eric can start spinning sympathies in the board or public.

He documents the raptor programs progression and ignores how tension is rising with every day. Barry intervenes when he can, as do the rest of Owen's crew.

Before Eric's efforts to gain leverage can even really begin, Owen wrangles a successful exercise out of his girls - and no one can ignore the way Hoskins eyes gleam.

.

.

.

Everything falls apart.

.

.

.

People are dead. People are dying.

Eric clutches Owen’s hand, and Owen’s grips back just as tight. His girls – their girls – snarl in their pen, agitated by all the intruders and gear being strapped to their heads.

“Come back to me.” Eric rises to his toes, presses a gentle kiss to Owen’s forehead. “Please, Owen. I can’t-“

The words lodge in Eric’s throat.

“I know,” Owen says, and there are a thousand more words in the way he looks at Eric then. “Stay safe.”

A last touch.

Owen leaves.

Gently, Claire pulls Eric away from Hoskins strike team. “He’ll be okay,” she tries, and neither of them really believe it.

.

.

.

Blue shrieks when she sees Eric.

Whatever protective instincts, whatever sense of pack, that had begun to form in the girls is completely gone. Eric mourns this, even as Owen roars up behind them on his bike.

One shared look tells Eric more than he wants to know.

Their pack is gone.

.

.

.

There is no camera in Eric’s hands when the Indominus lumbers towards him, but Eric will not need a photograph to recall this moment with perfect clarity.

It is an enormous brute. A chimera that opens its mouth so wide it looks like its jaw is unhinged. He can see the T-Rex parts, the raptor parts, and all the other creatures Dr Wu shoved into her DNA. 

"Oh my god," Eric breathes as red eyes meet his.

This creature should never have existed. A life created out of violence and conflicting instincts, left in aching loneliness despite the pack animals in her blood, and walled in a space far too small for a creature so great.

He almost,  _almost_ , feels sorry for her.

Owen stands before the monstrous chimera and her stolen raptors. Claire clutches at her nephews, pressing them behind her.

The Indominus growls. Eric feels it in his bones. It barks like the raptors do, and Eric knows that she is telling the raptors to attack.

Eric is perhaps the only one to hear the tiny, broken noise Owen makes as his girls hesitate.

.

.

.

The Indominus dies to teeth and roars and the black depths of the lagoon.

Eric wraps himself around Owen and watches Blue run off into the night. Their other girls are dead. Charlie. Delta. Echo. Gone.

It’s over.

He wonders, in ways he hasn’t since he stood in a not-so abandoned building full of wooden carvings, just what lengths InGen was willing to go to for a profit.

.

.

.

Later, when the ash and blood has been washed from their skin, Eric holds Owen.

He’s never seen Owen cry. It is somewhat terrifying, to witness him crumble in the safety of their hotel room.

“I’m sorry,” Eric soothes, smoothing his hands down the long, powerful line of Owen’s back, “I’m so sorry.”

“They deserved better.” Voice cracking with the weight of his grief, the weight of three raptors he had raised and trained and loved, Owen buries his face in Eric’s shoulder. Wetness slides down his skin, stains his shirt. Eric cries with him, aching and exhausted.

Their pack is gone.

.

.

.

Jurassic World closes.

Who will protect the islands, Eric wonders, as there is no John Hammond to come to the rescue this time.

.

.

.

It takes them both a long time to acclimate to normal society again.

They never quite fit, not like they did before islands full of ancient creatures changed them so completely.

Owen and Eric make it work. It’s hard, and it’s sad, but they try.

Sometimes, that’s all one can do.

.

.

.

Years later, when Eric and Owen wear identical rings and are talking about buying a house, Claire Dearing comes calling.

They meet her at a bar. She seems different, hair long and loose, not a spec of white cloth in sight. She looks good.

“Hi.” She tries for a smile, thin fingers threading together on the table.

“Hi,” Eric says in return, herding Owen into the booth opposite Claire. “Heard about your group. Nice work.”

She smiles, again, and it is truer this time. Whatever she learnt in her day tromping around the jungle with Owen changed her deeply.

The smile fades.

She tells them about the volcano.

.

.

.

They don’t even really talk about it.

They cannot abandon Blue, not to something like this, and pack their bags in silence.

“We’ll find her,” Eric says, taking a moment to touch Owen’s broad shoulder.

Owen says nothing, but he presses a kiss to Eric’s temple.

.

.

.

They find Blue.

She hisses and snarls, and then seems to recognise them. A soft warble burbles in her throat, and she trots right into Owen’s arms. Owen cradles her jaw, shoulders bowed with relief, and Eric’s heart beats with love, love, love at the sight of them.

Blue snuffles Owen’s clothes, snorts and wiggles on the spot, and she treats Eric to a yellow stare.

“Hey, Blue,” Eric says, and holds still as Blue weaves her way forward. She trills, softly, and noses his stomach and hands despite the way Owen has gone stiff.

After a moment, Blue snorts, as if making a decision, and settles in on Owen’s right.

.

.

.

Never once, in all the years since leaving Isla Sorna, did Eric think he would come back.

The shore is not familiar, but an atmosphere hangs over the island that Eric instantly recognises. He breathes in the heavy smell and murk of dense jungle and seaside air. 

For a moment, he feels like he is child again.

“You okay?” Owen presses their shoulders together. Isla Sorna looms overhead, the great arms of ancient trees sheltering them from the late afternoon sun as they enter the river-mouth. 

“Yeah,” Eric says, because the rumours of the Ghost of Five Deaths have persisted to this day, and he knows that his spectre still lives. “Yeah, I’m good.”

.

.

.

Everyone comes to the deck to watch as Isla Sorna surrounds them.

Ever since San Diego, this island had been a tantalizing mystery to all. Knowing the group Claire has put together, they must have been chomping at the bit to see what an untouched island full of dinosaurs has become.

Their ship has a belly full of rescued dinosaurs, soon to be released into the wilds, and their new home is so close.

So enraptured they all are by this great sanctuary, that they do not see a third of their group, conveniently standing at the rear, pull guns out from under their jackets.

.

.

.

Claire is furious, cheeks flushing as red as her hair, as she rests the full weight of her glare on Rodgers.

“I trusted you to help us,” she hisses, smashing a palm against the bars of the cage they have all been herded into, “you fucking asshole.”

Rodgers smirks, rolling a cigarette between his fingers. His men have exchanged their clothing for military garb, and armed themselves with a plethora of weapons.

Eric swallows. Bile sits on his tongue. The hand wrapped around his bicep is brutally tight. Eric is the only one not in the cage, and he doesn’t want to know why.

Perhaps Isla Sorna was always destined to be his grave.

“So,” Rodgers starts, looking Eric up and down, “you’re the one that survived on his island for two months as a kid.”

It isn’t a question. Eric remains silent. The man restraining him shoves him forward, towards the covered cage the rest of Rodgers team is pulling up from the depths of the ship.

The tarp falls away, and Eric nearly screams.

.

.

.

The Indoraptor is, perhaps, ever more monstrous than the Indominus ever was.

There is too much intelligence in its eyes, in the way is reaches with long, clawed fingers to delicately tap a rhythm against the floor of its cage. It watches Eric, black hide rippling with muscle. It stands on all fours despite having a body that is mostly raptor.

It looks wrong.

Eric catches Owen’s horrified stare.

“Let’s see how long you last, Grady.” Rodgers presses the nozzle of his rifle into Eric’s back until it hurts. “Try and make it at least five minutes. We want to give Indy here a decent test drive.”

Oh.

Oh shit.

Claire kicks the cage door, teeth bared, and shouts in a way he did not know she was capable of.

Owen is silent, skin pale, and clutches the bars in a white-knuckled grip. His wedding ring shines gold.

“You get a ten minute head start,” Rodgers is saying, pushing Eric to the rear of the boat. “Make it count.”

Eric could protest. He could beg or fight or shout a final _I love you_ to Owen.

He does none of that.

Eric jumps, and lets the waters of Isla Sorna catch him.

.

.

.

Once on land, Eric runs.

Even as his lungs start to burn, as his legs begin to wobble with fatigue, Eric tears through the jungle of Isla Sorna.

Half-hysteric, Eric wonders if maybe he should have joined Owen on his morning runs. Yoga clearly doesn't cut it for fitness in survival situations.

Air rasps down his throat, sweat trickling down his skin, by the time he sees something familiar. Eric doesn’t stop, as he isn’t sure he could start moving again if he did, and staggers towards the old observation building.

.

.

.

The fence still bares the gaping hole made by the spinosaurus. Eric climbs through the gaping, metal wound, knees locked to keep him standing, and swipes sweat from his eyes.

He throws himself against the door. With a rusty groan, it swings open. Air wheezes out of him as he remembers how Alan and Billy had thrown every lock shut on this very door.

Someone had unlocked it after Eric and his rescuers left.

Hope, frail and trembling, blooms in his breast. Eric goes inside. Dust coats every surface in a thick, greasy layer. One of the steps to the floor below breaks under his weight. He stumbles the rest of the way down, and stills.

Above, Eric had been able to ignore the empty space where his wooden carvings had sat; people rearranged their living spaces all the time, Owen barely blinks when he comes home to find Eric moving the furniture around again.

Eric muffles a desperate noise behind his teeth.

There are no neat lines of supplies, no shelves full of carefully folded clothes, no huge nest of pillows and blankets in the corner.

From the dust and mould and mildew, it is obvious that the building was abandoned some time ago.

A scream builds in his throat. All that escapes through clenched teeth is a high, animal keen. Eric clutches at his hair. He goes outside, limbs numb from more than exhaustion. Hot tears streak down his cheeks.

“Please,” Eric shouts, burying his fingers into the dirt for lack of anything else to hold onto. “Please, I need your help! I know you're out there, and I-I can't save them on my own!”

No answer comes. Again.

Gasping in serrated breaths, Eric wrestles his wild emotions into something he can manage. Stumbling, he goes back into the forest. It welcomes him, shelters him from the bright moonlight. Hope that was once warm in his breast chills. It is not anger that settles over Eric, but despair.

He bows forward, fingering his wedding ring, praying to a god he never believed in for the others to somehow make it out okay. For Owen to survive.

Eric has no weapons, no means of fighting off the Indoraptor, which leaves scurrying through the trees as his only option. Drawing on what energy he has left, Eric peers around for a climbable tree, only-

A raptor stands before him.

Eric stills.

The raptor lifts its nose, drawing air over its tongue in slow, thoughtful draughts. Eric blinks, looking closer.

“I know you.” Scars twine in pale lines and dots over the raptors hide. It is those pale with age that he recognises. It looks different in the night. “Eric. I’m Eric.”

The raptor draws back, making a low, churring noise. Another raptor emerges from the dark, watching them both, and this is not one he knows. It is huge, bigger than even Echo was, and bears a nearly solid black hide. Clearly, it does not see him as a threat, as it chuffs curiously. 

The scarred raptor snorts. It makes a sound he knows from months spent with Owen and his girls.

The dark one lends its voice to the cry too.

They are calling for their pack.

.

.

.

The Indoraptor finds them first.

.

.

.

Eric wants to scream as the Indoraptor reveals itself. Skin flickers with the same camouflage the Indominus bore, and it seems to smile as it slithers from the shadows.

The two raptors shriek in warning, chests low and arms spread wide in a threat display. The scarred one slides in front of Eric, and the dark one follows suit.

They are protecting him.

The Indoraptor pauses at this, heavy tail sweeping from side to side as it watches them. After a time when Eric can see it _thinking,_ it does what the Indominus did; it talks to the raptors. Low, coughing barks echo in its chest. Eyes that are far too keen track from Eric to the raptors and back again.

Snarls are the only response the Indoraptor receives.

Adrenaline flooding his veins, Eric’s hardly in a position to make sound decisions, which is why he don’t truly think about touching wild raptors. Thick, leathery skin shudders under his hand, and the scarred raptor does not budge when he pushes.

 “Go,” he says, resigned, “just go.”

It does not. It snarls and hisses in challenge, lets loose a loud scream that tears through the jungle. Again, it screams, stamping its feet.

And Eric thinks, Oh.

Sometimes, Owen had told him once, Charlie will try to distract me while Delta goes for the pig.

Velociraptors are pack hunters, and the pack protects its own.

One moment, the Indoraptor is standing.

The next, it is buried beneath the bodies of half a dozen raptors. The two before Eric leap into the fray, and not even decades of genetic engineering can combat the might of a pack of raptors.

.

.

.

When the Indoraptor is still and silent, several pairs of bright eyes turn upon Eric. He almost pisses himself. Bloodied maws part, rows of teeth on display, but not in aggression.

“Eric,” says a voice, rough and soft at once. Eric turns around.

Out in the open, only metres away, is his spectre. All of his wonderings were wrong, and right. The Ghost of Five Deaths is human in parts, and clearly raptor in others. Muscle and scars and too-yellow eyes watch him, and Eric grins in trembling relief.

Eric could cry, and when he sees a wooden figure hung around her neck, worn with age, he does. Wetness streaks down his cheeks.

“You came,” he says, and he isn’t ashamed of how weak his knees feel in that moment. “My name is Eric. You protected me when I was stranded here years ago.”

“I know,” she says. The raptors, _her_ raptors, leave the still-warm corpse of the Indoraptor and swarm to her side. "Why are you here?"

.

.

.

At first glance, Eric understands why she did not reveal herself. The tattooed number six on her shoulder speaks more than anything else; it would make sense that she was wary, even afraid, of people.

In a rush, he tells her of Claire’s group, what they were doing and pointing to the pillar of ash in the sky as proof, and of the men that usurped them.

“Please,” he begs, nausea growing in his gut. “My husband is in danger. The animals we’re rescuing will be…god, sold off to people that want trophies and the secrets in their bones.”

He knows the Ghost of Five Deaths hates poachers. The whole world does.

His spectre casts her gaze to the Indoraptor.

“Are there more like this?”

Twisted with a low resonance, her voice rumbles strangely. “Not sure. There was a bigger one, but it was killed years ago.”

A low growl echoes in her chest. He balks at the noise, remembers the screams that turned the T-Rex away from him so long ago. Rage fits her easily, flowing along her muscles arms and making clawed hands flex.

“I can’t save them alone.” Eric shuffles forward, as close as he dares, and rallies when she does not retreat. The raptors are calm despite his closeness. “Will you help me?”

.

.

.

The Indoraptors' tracker hasn’t moved.

Owen's thoughts feel thick with grief as Rodgers reports on the chimeras' lack of movement. It is a deliberate move, chosen to make Owen as weak as possible - he may have left the Navy, but Owen was still dangerous and highly trained.

“She hasn’t been fed in a few days,” one of Rodgers men says with a casual cruelty as he walks past the cage, “probably enjoying the meal.”

Claire snarls. Owen chokes down a broken noise as the image bursts into his head in a splash of red, clenching his hand until the pressure of his ring is unbearable.

He has to keep it together, he tells himself.

At least until they are out of this horror, Owen has to keep his damn shit together. Once Blue is free and Claire’s group is safe Owen can fall apart like he wants to – oh, and how badly he wants to break. A thin sound breaks in his throat. He squeezes his eyes shut, is distantly grateful that Claire grounds him with a firm touch on his forearm.

She doesn’t say she’s sorry.

If she did, Owen would lose the remnants of his composure.

After, he'll have to go find his husband...or what's left of him, and tell Amanda.

God. This was going to destroy her.

Dragging in several slow breaths, Owen pulls himself upright. He survived the Navy, SEALS, and Jurassic World twice over. Owen can compartmentalise his howling grief long enough to get through this.

A tiny part of Owen, bruised and battered by loss, still manages a glimmer of hope that Eric somehow survived. That maybe the Indoraptor had been killed by the goliaths of Isla Sorna, or the Ghost of Five Death’s was real and just as violent at the rumours said.

Any mention of these rumours had Eric hiding a grin. Owen always saw the twitch of his lips, no matter how quick his husband had been to hide it.

Owen twists his ring, feeling the smooth metal brush over the soft part of his thumb.

All that’s left of his pack is three decks below, slumbering and contained, and he will see Blue free.

Owen stands up.

There is nothing he can do right now, not until one of Rodgers men slips up.

He settles in to wait.

.

.

.

Rodgers mistake, it seems, was to come to this island at all.

Owen counts the number of footsteps he can hear. Two are missing. And then, with a muffled choking noise, three are missing.

He knows better than to hope. He does it anyway. It blazes in his chest, bright and burning at the grief caging his heart. He stays still, strains his hearing to pick out the smallest noises.

The birds are silent, he realises, and despairs. 

It’s not Eric. There is no reason for wildlife to fear Eric and his gentle nature, for them to fear humans to the point of terror. Tears cloud Owen’s sight before he blinks them back.

Subtly, he nudges Claire. She starts, softens, and wipes the stray tear on his cheek away before he can do it himself.

“Oh, Owen,” she sighs raggedly.

He ignores the sorrow. “Get ready,” his whispers, “somethings up.”

Claire blinks, stiffening, and grips his hand.

.

.

.

Rodgers ambles up to their cage, and the men flanking him raise their guns in warning. They haven’t noticed that they are missing members, yet.

“Lucky for you, Indy is still busy with her dinner,” he says, and Owen’s soul wails, “so you get clean deaths.”

It doesn’t take genius intellect to guess. Rifles are trained on them as Owen and the others are ushered from the cage.

“A firing squad?” Owen cracks a hideous laugh, feels the way it twists in his chest like venom in his veins. “Really?”

Rodgers punch splits Owen’s lip, cutting the inside of his cheek. Owen staggers, but he does not fall. Blood fills his mouth. Claire snakes a quick strike of her own out, quivering with fury and fear, and doesn’t flinch when Rodgers catches her hand. With amused disdain, Rodgers pushes Claire away. She stumbles into Owen with a growl.

“Don’t act like you’re surprised, Navy Boy. None of you are getting off this island alive. Marcus, Jacobs, herd them to the rear.”

The night is dark and liquid, and the birds are still silent. Owen walks to the rear of the boat, following his husband’s path, and turns back to Rodgers with a bloody smile. Back in his SEAL days he’d thought he would die to the taste of his own blood.

Funny, how things turned out.

Owen always did wonder what truths there were to the rumours around this island, too. Always felt the questions burn on his tongue when he was with Eric and Isla Sorna came up. He regrets not asking while he had the chance.

Owen doesn't react when a scream comes from the stern. Claire's people gasp and huddle together, while Rodgers and his men go tense.

Well, Owen thinks hysterically, it would seem that the rumours are true.

The Ghost of Five Deaths hates poachers.

And then, from the shadows to the left, a familiar and loved voice from the left booms, “Drop your weapons.”  

(Four down.)

Eric stomps out from behind a crate, training a rifle on Rodgers centre mass, and doesn’t flinch when another cry echoes in the night. The man sounds terrified before the noise abruptly cuts off.

(Five down.)

Rodgers is surprised. He twists, bringing his own rifle up. His men are trained enough to keep at least one gun focused on Owen, the only real threat in the captive group.

Out of the corner of his eye, Owen sees one of Rodgers men at the stern pulled out of sight. A tail flicks in the light. Owen's heart kicks into a higher rhythm.

(Six down.)

“You’re outnumbered,” Rodgers seethes, cocky, “Marcus, kill the other Grady.”

Eric scowls, lifts his rifle-

A raptor screams, and Marcus bellows as 300 pounds of muscle and claws lands upon his back. A black muzzle clamps over a fragile human neck. One bite and Marcus is dead. Jacobs crumbles next, another raptor crushing his windpipe before he can even move. 

It's over in seconds. Rodgers gapes at the bloodied mess.

Owen darts forward, slams his elbow into Rodgers temple. Claire is hot on his heels and yanks the gun away. Rodgers yells in rage. Owen flips him onto his front, keeps him down with a boot between his shoulders.

He breathes. He looks up, stares at his husband. His living, breathing, brave soulmate.

“You okay?”

Eric softens, passes the rifle over without Owen asking, and says, “Yeah. I’m okay.”

The two raptors snarl at Rodgers as they circling around the other humans, and settle either side of Eric. Seeing how the rest of their group shrinks away from the predators, Eric clears his throat and says, “Uh, Sickle, Demon…friends? Protect.”

Owen marvels as the raptors calm. They listen to Eric, watch how he points to Owen, Claire, and her people and says these words over and over again. 

“Babe?”

“Long story.” Eric grimaces, carefully not looking at the bodies behind Owen. “They won’t hurt us. Only this fuckwit.”

Eric rarely swears. Giddy with relief, Owen chuckles. “Is this how you survived the first time?”

“Apparently.” Eric laughs and passes an entranced gaze over the raptors. “Lock him up?”

“Just shoot him,” Claire mutters, and rolls her eyes at the looks she receives. “Kidding, obviously. Shove him in a cage.”

“How the fuck-“ Rodgers blusters, struggling against Owen’s grip as he hauls the man upright. “Where are my men?”

“Dead or locked up, I don't really care.” Eric shrugs, keeping pace with Owen as he shoves Rodgers toward the stern. The raptors stay beside him, their claws clicking against the metal floor. Owen is so very curious, and so very relieved.

Only once Rodgers is secured, locked away with a bunch of his unconscious fellows, does Owen cup Eric’s jaw and kiss him.

Eric laughs wetly, curls his arms around Owen’s waist. “Easy,” he calms the raptors, who make small noises of confusion. “Friend. Owen. Protect.”

“They listen to you,” Owen manages around the shock of two wild raptors coming close enough to smell his clothing. There is no aggression in their body language.

“Only because she told them too,” Eric whispers, a secret just between them. The way Eric looks at him makes Owen bite back the instinctive _who_ in favour of more kissing.

Claire clears her throat. She looks amused despite the bruise-like shadows under her eyes.

“If you’re finished,” she says, “we have some dinosaurs to set free.”

Rodgers makes a disparaging noise.

.

.

.

Sickle and Demon do not leave Eric’s side. They refuse to step more than a few feet away from him, and snarl thunderously whenever Rodgers or his men make too much noise.

Owen catches Eric looking into the trees. Several times, he himself glimpses several pairs of bright, yellow eyes watching them before they slink further into the shadows. It chills and comforts Owen all at once.

The Ghost of Five Deaths hates poachers, and they,  _she_ , saved their lives.

Dawn colours the sky by the time the last of the herbivores has ambled into their new homes. Rexy slumbers on, as do the few other carnivores they managed to save. Claire steers the ship away from the bank, guiding them further up river and releasing the carnivores at they go.

They use a crane to lift the cages out, and the vet jabs them with a stimulant before skittering back on board.

One by one, every animal is released, until only Blue remains.

Owen handles her. She wakes up slowly, and calms when she feels no restraints and only his hands upon her. She groans as the sedatives fade away.

“Hey, Blue,” he hums, “my bright, baby bluebird.”

.

.

.

The rest of the group have scattered by the time Owen and Blue come above deck. She cranes her neck, peering around with curious eyes, as he leads her down the ramp. She stays close.

“Welcome home,” Owen murmurs, pressing a soothing touch down her side. She shivers with excitement, but watches him carefully. She can surely smell the blood and fatigue upon him.

He leads her into the jungle, following the tracks Eric left for him.

The clearing is small. Eric is waiting for them and he smiles. Sickle and Demon bristle as they see Blue. Blue puffs up in return, hopping in front of Owen with a heavy growl.

A sharp noise settles the other two. Blue and Owen twist towards the source of the sound, and he chokes as half a dozen raptors spill into the clearing. A figure at the rear that is neither human nor raptor but a mix of both keeps the peace with a calming croon.

She watches him and Blue. Not hostile, but wary. Owen has seen eyes like that many times, in warzones with civilians trapped between two forces. Wanting to trust, and wanting to run at the same time.

Under his breath, Eric laughs.

“This isn’t funny, husband,” Owen manages, rubbing Blue’s shoulder as she presses back into him. “The Ghost of Five Deaths, I presume?”

She grins, wicked and sharp with too many sharp teeth. A rumble of a laugh comes from her, and Owen comforts Blue when she shifts with agitation. Neither of them know what to make of this Ghost.

Not at all afraid of the numerous highly dangerous predators surrounding them, Eric comes to Owen’s side. Blue buries her nose in his stomach, smelling the day’s events on him too, and warbles softly. Eric’s surprise is clear, but he melts and pets Blue in ways only Owen had been allowed in the past. Barry would be jealous in the moments before elbowing Owen and suggestively wiggling his eyebrows.

"Easy, Blue," Owen hums, tracing the cobalt stripe on her side.

Ghost tilts her head, thoughtful, and says, “You can stay.”

“What?” Eric's surprise is plain. “That wasn’t...I thought…”

“You are a pack.” She does not come closer. Rather, she picks a path around them until she can see Blue more clearly. “She trusts you, and you do not control her.”

Owen looks at her tail, her scars, the claws and feet and scutes along her muscled arms, and lingers on _control._

Given what Hoskins wanted, what the Indotraptor was meant to become, he wouldn’t put it past them to make something like Ghost. The tattoo on her shoulder is stark against pale, grey skin.

“She’s my baby girl,” Owen loops an arm over said baby girls' neck, knuckling the soft spot behind her jaw that made her listless with delight as a baby. Now, fully grown, she quivers but does not collapse into his lap, far too busy keeping her keen eyes on the unknown pack before them. He loves her so much. “All that’s left.”

Ghost blinks, and seems to understand. “You raised her.”

“Yep.” He is proud, and pained. Charlie, Echo, and Delta deserved better. Years later and it still hurts. “Will you keep her safe?”

Ghost nods, but still repeats, “You can stay.”

It’s tempting. Owen can see similar thoughts in Eric’s eyes. Neither of them were quite the same after Jurassic World, and their little apartment in Oakland was too big and too small without the oppressive heat of the tropics.

“No,” is what Eric eventually says, “At least, not yet. We have some stuff to tie up.”

Yellow eyes flick in the direction of the ship and a tail lazily weaves back and forth. “And then you will be back.”

It is not a question. Eric answers anyway, “Yes.”

“Good.” Ghost makes a noise, and most of her pack slithers back into the forest. Only Sickle remains. “Blue,” she says, and makes a soft, cajoling croon.

Blue looks between Ghost and Owen. “Go on,” he says, lightly pushing her towards the others, “I’ll be back for you, Bluebird.”

Ghost softens her posture, holds her hand out for Blue to scent, and Owen feels his heart break a little when his girl does. Light steps, cautious steps, bridge the gap between the two packs.

“Take this.” Eric digs a satellite phone out of his pocket, one that runs off solar power, and tosses it to Ghost. “Call us if you need anything. Can we…can we call and check up on her?”

Owen forgets, sometimes, that Eric loves Blue as much as he does. He is so used to people shying away from the claws and teeth.

“Yes.” Ghost tucks the phone into a pouch on her hip, killing claws tapping a rhythm into the dirt. She looks at Eric, touches the wooden figure around her throat. “Last time you asked, I was afraid.”

“I know.” Eric looks like he wants to go closer. “Thanks for the help.”

She nods, and disappears after her pack.

Blue looks back, and when Owen gestures for her to go, she follows Ghost into the jungle.

.

.

.

It’s not until they’re back home that Owen dares to ask: “Ghost?”

Fingers draw idle patterns on Owen’s stomach, meandering through a scattering of scars left by shrapnel. “She protected me when I was on the island,” a short laugh, “both times. Though, I only met her, _saw_ her, the second time.”

A pause.

“She saved me; made sure I had food and blankets and a safe place to sleep.” A shuddering inhale. “Fucking hell, she taught her pack to recognise me by scent and name, Owen, and then she was alone all those years. I mean, did you see those scars? The burns? Did the poachers do that?”

Owen knows how soft Eric’s heart is, and he also knows that they are both thinking of the firestorm some years ago and the beached ship full of dead bodies.

Ghost has killed people. Or, at least, her pack has. But, only two of Rodgers men had been slaughtered, and it was Sickle and Demon that did the deed.

Owen rolls onto his side, letting Eric burrow into his warmth with long practice.

“There is no reason to feel guilty.”

Whatever noise Eric makes is muffled by the meat of Owen’s shoulder. “She kept the wooden carvings I left for her. Every one.”

“That’s where you picked up whittling?”

“Little else to do at the time, and she left me, like, five daggers, I had to give something in return. I still have one of those knives, actually.” Eric sighs, sounding as bone tired as Owen feels, and slides his ankle in between Owen calves. “What’re gonna do, babe?”

“I don’t know,” he answers, honestly, because he can never lie to Eric, “not yet anyway.”

.

.

.

What they end up doing is going to an old friend of Eric’s.

Lex Murphy, CEO of InGen, wears sweatpants and a t-shit that says _age of the geek, baby_. She sits through the bulk of the Sunday afternoon it takes to explain their story in silence, the only reaction she gives being the slow climb of her eyebrows to her hairline.

“Quite the story,” is what she says at the end. She narrows her eyes at Eric. “I _knew_ you weren’t telling me something.”

Indignant, Eric squawks. Lex grins, sharp, and wiggles her fingers. “Tim is going to go ballistic when he finds out, you know. He still furious about the Indominus.”

“I know,” Eric mumbles, rubbing a temple. “I still get weird email rants from him.”

Lex shifts, crossing her legs, and knocks back half of her cold coffee. She slaps her hands together decisively. “Okay. Let’s start planning.”

.

.

.

It takes months.

Lex digs through files and systems with the skills she has never let dull. She pulls threads of information out of the darkest corners, and her brother, once finished with his snit over being told second, gathers it all into a cohesive story. Tim shows how he earned a partnership at one of the best law firms in DC so young, and watching him speak before crowds of people is inspiring.

Claire brings the force of her protection group to bear, rallying behind the motions Tim puts forth.

It takes months. Long, exhausting months, but eventually they win.

Isla Sorna is declared a protected reserve. The moles within InGen are found, their vicious experiments with genetics exposed for what they are and punished. Jurassic World does not reopen, and perhaps it is for the better.

Still, Isla Sorna requires a permanent warden presence. Naturally, Owen and Eric are two of the first to apply for the job.

They come back.

They come home.

.

.

.

They drop their bags inside the doorway and run back outside. Eric is breathless with laughter, drinking in the way his husband is nearly vibrating with excitement.

All of their work, the sleepless nights, the stress, the endless, relentless interviews, has come to this.

Blue screams in joy at the sight of them. She bolts for Owen, dances a tight circle around them both before burying her muzzle in Owen’s hands.

Owen laughs and cries as he presses Blue’s forehead to his own. “Hey, baby girl, my baby bluebird,” he says, over and over.

Eric leaves them to their reunion.

“Eric,” says Ghost, emerging from the jungle. Her raptors mill around, chasing dragonflies or finding a patch of sun to doze in. Their leader does not fear these humans, so neither will they.

“Hey.” He hasn’t stopped grinning since the helicopter dropped them off. “Pick out a name yet?”

She sighs, but months of phone calls have taught him to hear the amusement hidden there. “Some of your suggestions were horrible.”

Eric comes as close as he dares, leaving a good metre between them, and resists knuckling her scarred shoulder in jest. “You didn’t like Beatrice?”

She rumbles a low noise, yellow eyes thrown skyward for a beat, before saying, “I still don’t see why I need a name,” a pause, a smile, “but I suppose Jane will do.”

Eric rolls the name around. “Suits you. Jane. Jaaane. J-J-Jane.”

“Stop.” Jane flicks a yellow stare over the building behind him, at the windows in which Eric is certain the other wardens are staring through with wide eyes. “You didn’t tell them.”

“Nah.” He shrugs, and jolts when Blue comes from behind to rub against him like a cat. “Hey, Bluebird.”

Jane’s features are sharp and bold, almost feral, but they soften as he scratches Blue’s neck. “She missed you. Both of you.”

“I missed you too, Blue.” Eric croons, tickling her chin. “It’s good to be home.”

Jane looks at him, and smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are love! I'm struggling with the main story, so any feedback from you guys really inspires me!


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